Two Friends, One Suicide

On April 11, 1995, exactly 10 years ago, my friend Lisa fashioned a
noose from a bathrobe belt, tied it to the bar of her hallway closet, looped
the other end around her neck and hung herself. When her fiance found her,
Lisa’s toes were just grazing the floor—she was so determined to kill herself, she had summoned the strength to hold up her own feet. It was less
than two weeks before her wedding.

For the next two days, the hospital kept Lisa on a respirator as they
surveyed for brain activity, while 15 to 20 members of her family and
friends held vigil in the waiting area. I’ll never forget what I saw when I went into her room in the intensive care unit: my friend’s body lying still except for the rise and fall of her chest as air was pumped into her lungs; her eyes closed, a light magenta bruise encircling her neck. Her father
wailed as he kneeled beside her. He’d been in that room all day, consumed by grief, hoping somehow she could miraculously pull through.

But when I looked at Lisa in that bed, I knew the next time I’d see her would be at her funeral. The following day, my funny, loving, dear friend of
seven years was taken off the respirator, and she died. She was only 24. The
people who loved her were left to deal with the anguish, confusion and
indignation at the absolute wrongness of the situation. I felt these things
acutely and something else, too: terror. There had been many times when my
own depression had made me feel desperate enough to contemplate suicide. But
I’d always thought I could handle it and wait out the difficult periods.
Lisa’s suicide made me see things differently. She was my age, my size, a
friend with whom I’d shared classes, books, albums, friends, jokes, values. I realized for the first time that there were two Lisas, and I’d known only one of them. The other Lisa was filled with rage and torment, and she had killed the friend I adored.

Ironic is too blithe a word to describe the tragic fact that Lisa had talked more people off the ledge during college than any crisis hotline, then went on to succeed in killing herself. I was one of those people, and I had
survived while she had not.

I had coped with depression for half my life. Most of the time, I was
extroverted, enthusiastic and optimistic. But from the age of 12 until
Lisa’s death, I had feelings of fury, melancholy and humiliation, and when
they’d reach the boiling point, I’d secretly fantasize about suicide. When that mind-set took hold, I’d sleep all the time, then not at all. I was almost always paranoid, convinced everyone was making fun of me. I’d become obsessed with an especially cool group of people, and then I’d abruptly withdraw from them and the rest of my friends.

At first my mother dismissed my sullen moods as adolescent rebellion. But
when at one point I suddenly spurned all of my friends and stayed up all
night, every night, for over a week, she became concerned that something was
seriously wrong with me. At 15, my parents had me evaluated by a
psychiatrist who diagnosed me with clinical depression and referred me to a
psychotherapist. These were the years before antidepressants were dispensed
like aspirin. So the doctor recommended counseling but didn’t prescribe
medication to stabilize the moods that had me swinging from hyperactive,
yammering social butterfly to morose, fatalistic recluse.

Lisa was one of the first friends I made at my college, Rutgers University in New Brunswick, New Jersey, and she quickly became the one person I
counted on when I’d get depressed. I’d often turn up at her door following one of my panicked, weepy evening phone calls, apologizing profusely. She’d invite me in, pour us each a mug of cheap jug wine and stay up with me until the wee hours detangling the syntax in my English literature papers or
parsing horrendous breakup and make-up conversations. Lisa was exceedingly
patient with my repetitive, self-absorbed rants about how this professor
must think I’m an idiot and that crush must think I’m a twit, assuring me that I wasn’t stupid, that I was worthy. Her calm, easygoing manner was infectious, and eventually I would relax. And then she’d coax a smile from me by prompting me with some lyrics from Madonna’s “Justify My Love,” which we’d recite in our hammiest New York accents: “Tell me your dreams—am I in ‘em? Tell me your fears—are ya scared?” Without fail, we’d both end up
collapsing into paroxysms of laughter.

When I was alone, with the phone turned off and my roommates gone, however, I would imagine slitting my wrists with my X-Acto knife, climbing into a warm bath and drifting off into death. I found this fantasy soothing. Just
knowing that I could put an end to my emotional torment calmed me down. I
didn’t yet realize that there was no such thing as a peaceful suicide.
After graduating from college, I tried to treat my brief but chronic
relapses into depression like the common cold. I’d call in sick, curl up in my bed, wait it out and remind myself that no matter how miserable and
hopeless I felt, in time I’d recover. Fortunately, after a few weeks, I
always did.

I was in such a state the week before Lisa died. I’d taken time off from my publishing job and spent the entire week in my studio apartment, alone. The depression was fierce, more aggressive than I’d ever experienced. I told myself I had to find a psychiatrist who would prescribe Prozac or Zoloft,
but I could barely get myself out of bed. After a week at home, I finally
dragged myself into the office. That night, I came home to hear the message
that Lisa was in intensive care in a New Jersey hospital.

I rode the first morning train out to New Brunswick. Suddenly, my depression struck me as self-indulgent and petty. Lisa had been suffering something terribly pernicious, more so than anything I’d experienced, but I never saw the signs. She wasn’t a cutter, a bulimic, a hard drinker, a drug user or a daredevil behind the wheel. She’d never tried suicide before the attempt that killed her. She had a supportive, loving family; a kind, devoted man who adored her; a good job as a high school English teacher. And Lisa had plans: After the wedding, she and her new husband were going to move from New Jersey to Brooklyn, and she would begin a master’s program in education. I wasn’t aware that she had a horrifying plan B.

I knew that Lisa had struggled with a bout of depression once during the
previous year, but she had been successfully treated with medication and
therapy. It was only after her death that I learned Lisa’s illness had come back with a vengeance, eating away at her as voraciously and malignantly as
a fast-growing tumor. She mustered all of her energy to function for her
students and shut down when she got home. Lisa told her college roommate
that when she revealed the intensity of her depression to her family and
fiance, they convinced her to take a leave of absence from her job. They
even debated putting her in the hospital. But ultimately, she may have been
too far gone.

In my last conversation with Lisa, we spoke for over an hour about her
wedding, graduate school, plans to move to my neighborhood—and her past
battle with depression. When she’d talked about it before, it was with a
certain confident detachment. This time, Lisa sounded rattled. “It was
really scary,” she said. “But things are much more manageable now.” Her voice returned to normal over the course of the conversation, so I believed her. I asked if she and her fiance were planning to start a family. No, she said, abruptly, as if to say, it’s not up for discussion, my mind’s never going to change. Throughout the phone call, I found myself reflexively expressing every loving sentiment I’d ever wanted to share with her. I told her she’d taught me what it meant to be a friend. At the time, I thought I was just getting emotional in anticipation of her wedding. Later, I would recall this conversation with a mixture of horror and relief, wondering, in retrospect, if I unconsciously sensed something beneath her surface composure.

Lisa’s suicide literally scared the life into me: Lying in that hospital bed, she showed me the awful difference between fantasizing about suicide and actually following through. To this day, whenever a suicidal thought
creeps into my mind, I only need to refer back to that image of Lisa on a
respirator to remind myself of what it really means to do it. At the same
time, I recognized my own vulnerability; I hadn’t given depression enough
credit. It was deceptive, acting like a mere nuisance as it sabotaged my
work, my friendships, my love life. And my depressed periods were getting
worse with age, each battle more wearing than the last. I realized I had to
arm myself if I wanted to continue to win.

I found myself a psychotherapist, whom I saw every week for nearly 10 years. The first year, we talked about what brought me into her office—my grief about Lisa, my fears of suicidal thoughts. As difficult as therapy was, I
went back every week—I needed it. And I sensed that it was effective,
because I started to approach my life differently. I liked how therapy
changed me.

I was also referred to a psychopharmacologist who prescribed Prozac, Paxil and Celexa, but each drug made me anxious, asexual, overweight and unable to cry. Then we landed on my perfect cocktail—Wellbutrin and Topamax. I got back my libido, my metabolism, and best of all, my emotional life. Over
time, I started to feel more relaxed and confident. I’ve had setbacks—last year I took a work problem to heart and had a harder time getting things done for nearly two months—but even at my worst, I’ve been able to get myself out of bed before 7 A.M. and slog through my inbox. And four years ago, I began my first healthy relationship with someone who doesn’t inspire 2 A.M. weep-fests. I know Lisa would have approved of my partner, and I’m devastated they’ll never meet.

I still think about Lisa every day. There are times when I’m watching a movie, and I’ll remember having first seen it with her. Or I’ll become obsessed with a new band and imagine that Lisa would’ve shared my passion for them. There are whole days when I have to remind myself that her suicide even happened in the first place. They usually follow the nights when I’ve had a dream about her; it’s the same dream every time. We are having a picnic, and I ask her how long she is visiting, a question she never answers. The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them: I tell her how devastating it was. The hospital. The funeral. Her parents’ unending sorrow. I’m sorry I’m telling you all this, I say in my dream. She takes my hand in hers, looks at me sympathetically and smiles gently, as though we’re talking about someone else. I’m reminded of the Lisa I loved so much, and I wake up with a catch in my throat, missing her even more.

Kera Bolonik has written for New York magazine, The New York Times, and Salon.com.

If you’re depressed Here’s how to get help: To learn about symptoms, log on to the National Institute of Mental Health’s Web site. If you need to talk, call the National Hopeline Network at 800-784-2433. Prompt treatment could save your life.